


A Foxhole Thing

by Callisto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 07, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I am so pissed at him right now, you can’t imagine. I ain’t going to lie. There were times I wished it was him with all my fucking heart. But Jesus, Sam, am I the only one who’s been paying attention all these years to the nasty shit we salt and burn?” Dean is breathing heavily as Sam uses the coffee table to get to his feet. Once he’s up, Dean stops pacing and points a finger right in Sam’s face. “Don’t you ask me to say goodbye twice. I ain’t doing it twice.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Foxhole Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ancasta for the beta.

_Sam: “You know she and Bobby had a thing, right?”  
Dean: “Yeah, I knew that... Really?”  
Sam: “Kind of a foxhole thing. Very Hemingway.”  
-7.19 Of Grave Importance –_

 

A Foxhole Thing

They stop for the night at some fleapit with badly lit teapots on the walls instead of seagulls. Sam turns at the door and thinks about trying to say something smart about increasingly weird motel rooms. But it’s honestly too much effort, and he’s pretty sure he’d get little more than a grunt in return. 

Proving just that point, Dean sighs impatiently and shoulders past Sam to toss a duffel onto the bed nearest the door. As Sam watches, Dean takes out the flask and stares at it, turning it over in his hands. It’s been filled twice since they left Bodega Bay, and judging by how Dean doesn’t bring it to his lips Sam guesses it’s empty again.

It’s starting to creep him out.

“Dean...”

“What?” It’s slow and distracted because Dean’s eyes are still on the flask. It’s also about word number six out of Dean in the last two hundred miles.

Sam steps forward, not liking the way the muscle in Dean’s jaw is twitching as he thumbs the surface of the flask back and forth. 

“What?” Dean says again, sharp and distinct this time. He looks up when Sam gets nearer, and Sam falters. There was a time he could step up and kiss all the vinegar right out of Dean. Just fuck the fear away.

But that was before he threw himself into the earth and sent Dean to play house with a woman Dean slowly learned to love and lost anyway. Before Cas and Amy reminded them yet again how bitter betrayal still tasted, and before Lucifer slipped between the sheets with Dean’s voice in Sam’s ear and a forked tongue in Sam’s mouth.

“Nothing.” Sam clears his throat, takes a step back and pretends his neck is itchy.

“Good. I’m taking first shower. You go get us something to eat.”

Sam breathes in, reacting to Dean’s tone. Because upset and moody older brother aside, he is not Dean’s fucking houseboy. But Dean is already ignoring him and striding toward the bathroom.

Sam tries not to mind when Dean shuts the door. Loudly. 

He raises his voice. “Certainly, Dean. Of course, Dean. Running all the fucking way, Dean.”

It’s childish, not funny, and a beat too late since Sam can already hear the water starting up.

But it means Sam is not totally whipped and Dean gets to eat what Sam wants tonight. He picks up the keys and leaves, only to come back two seconds later and pick up the flask. He looks at the closed shower door and puts it in his pocket, decision made. 

He returns with a bottle of Jack, two slices of pie, and a sack more grease than paper. 

So apparently, he is whipped.

But it’s okay, because Dean looks better. He’s on the sofa in jeans and a gray tee, bare feet on the table, beer already opened. “Wow,” he says, half-turning in Sam’s direction. “You read my mind, Sammy.”

Sam waggles the bottle of Jack at him. “Like that’s a hard thing to do.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and serve me, bitch.” But Dean’s eyes are alight and his tone fond for the first time all day, so Sam brings it all over.

Silence reigns while they eat, an episode of White Collar a welcome distraction from talking or thinking.

Until the end of it, when Dean’s had his pie, the Feds have their man, and all that’s left is the bottom of a glass to get to. Dean looks intently into his, swirling the whiskey between his hands. Sam joins him, clinking his glass to Dean’s before he takes the first swallow and puts his feet up on the table next to Dean’s. 

“Where did you put the flask?” 

Sam looks to his right. Dean’s head is tilted back on the sofa, his gaze on the ceiling.

“Locked it in the trunk.”

Dean nods slowly, then turns his head toward Sam. “You think Bobby’s out there in the back seat?” 

Sam leans back, mirrors Dean’s position. “No idea.”

There’s silence, and Sam is fairly sure they’re both resisting the urge to get up and look. “Dean. Just because we saw him at the house does not mean we’ll see him again.”

“I know.” There’s silence for a moment longer. Dean’s jaw is working like crazy and Sam can’t stop himself. He puts his hand on Dean’s left leg above his knee. Dean looks at it and drains his glass. Sam throws caution to the wind and moves his hand to the back of Dean’s neck. Dean lets him, just hangs his head and closes his eyes, and that alone tells Sam how much Ghost Bobby is fucking with his brother. 

Sometimes he forgets how hard Dean loved the man. Not that Sam didn’t, but he knows damn well who was Bobby’s favorite, who kept Dean sane while Sam was off soaking himself in demon-blood. Possessed, soulless, or desperate to save Dean from Hell, Sam always seemed to try and kill Bobby at some point. Dean, on the other hand, licked a lot of wounds in the man’s kitchen when Sam wasn’t around. 

“It ain’t right, Sam,” says Dean, hoarse.

Sam moves in closer, gets his arm all the way around and tugs Dean sideways. It’s like tugging a cinder block. “Dean, don’t. Don’t do this.” He manages to press his lips to Dean’s left temple. “We’ll deal with it, okay?”

In a second, Sam is practically dumped on his ass as all that tension propels Dean to his feet. Sam also gets an elbow across his chest for his pains. Which... _ow_. He’s only a few hours from literally getting his heart squeezed.

Not that Dean seems to notice as he glares down. 

“How, Sam? How the fuck are we going to deal with this? Ride around like the Three Muskateers and hope Bobby remembers why he stayed?”

“Dean, that’s not what I meant—

“I am so pissed at him right now, you can’t imagine. I ain’t going to lie. There were times I wished it was him with all my fucking heart. But Jesus, Sam, am I the only one who’s been paying attention all these years to the nasty shit we salt and burn?” Dean is breathing heavily as Sam uses the coffee table to get to his feet. Once he’s up, Dean stops pacing and points a finger right in Sam’s face. “Don’t you ask me to say goodbye twice. I ain’t doing it twice.”

“Dean, can you just calm down a minute?”

“No!”

And with that Dean strides across the room, grabs his jacket, jams his bare feet into his boots and stomps out to the parking lot. After, naturally, slamming the door.

Sam sighs and slowly drains his own glass, but it doesn’t really help. Understanding Dean is truly like deciphering Enochian while high. Neither make an awful lot of sense until much later. 

He takes a minute to absorb the Dean-sized silence of the room and then makes his way over to the window. The keys are still on the table, so he’s guessing Dean is going to have to sulk somewhere close by. Sure enough, there he is, sitting on the curb next to the car. Sam looks and the back seat is clear. He thinks about going out there, trying again, but this is not the way Dean works.

Sam heads for the shower. Tomorrow he will get up early and come back with a box of Krispy Kremes and enough espresso shots to hot-wire Dean into coherence. 

Only he doesn’t have to wait that long.

He wakes an indeterminate time later to the sound of Dean moving quietly around their room. Sam left the lamp on in the far corner of the room, so he knows there’s enough light for Dean to empty out his pockets and toe off his boots without bumping into furniture. He still listens a little tensely, though. Dean doesn’t always comes back from storming out very steady on his feet.

He hears the light click on in the bathroom and relaxes. Dean’s footfall is even enough.

Only when Dean is done and the light clicks off, that same even footfall comes to the foot of Sam’s bed and doesn’t move away. Sam is used to Dean giving him a once-over if he goes to bed first, but this is way longer than a once-over.

“Dean?”

“Shit. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Sam rolls all the way over, opens his eyes. “You okay, man?” The light from the lamp is enough to make out Dean in a white tee and boxers, shifting from foot to foot and biting his bottom lip.

“Yeah. Just...yeah.”

Dean looks away, back at Sam, rubs a hand down his face and takes a tentative step forward. Then he gestures at his own bed. “I guess I’ll, uh...”

Sam has been tying himself in knots over Dean for weeks now. Ever since Lucifer left and he knows, knows it’s Dean looking back at him, he still can’t quite make his hands reach out and touch. Which is why it’s so typical that unplanned in a crappy motel with teapots on the wall, it’s actually the easiest thing in the world to simply lift a corner of the comforter and scoot back.

Hell, his heart isn’t even picking up.

“What? No!”

“Dean...”

And that’s all it takes.

Dean slides in, mumbling about cold feet and crappy beer, or some such shit, and Sam is having none of it. He just wraps him up and hauls him in.

“Sam. I’m not that fucking cold.”

“God, shut up, Dean. For once.”

The next mumble is muffled against Sam’s collarbone as Dean shivers. So Sam keeps them both on their sides and starts rubbing Dean’s back. “You’re an idiot,” Sam tells him softly. Dean smells a little of cigarette smoke, but mostly of the cold. “I can’t believe you didn’t let—

And then Dean is clutching at him, tightly, fisting Sam’s t-shirt in handfuls. Sam stops talking, but he keeps rubbing Dean’s back, almost like he’s trying to persuade the words to rise.

“You have to do it, when the time comes.”

Sam stills his hands, just for a second, but he’s pretty sure of the thread of conversation here.

“I mean, I know he was your...your Bobby, too. But I can’t. I fucking can’t.”

“Hey.” Sam pulls back, gets Dean’s face between his hands so he can keep him right there. Dean’s eyes are bright, but at least they’re steady on Sam now. “When I said we’d deal with it, I didn’t mean I think it’s right for him to stay.” He strokes his thumbs across Dean’s eyebrows, swallows when Dean closes his eyes briefly. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. You tell me when, and I’ll destroy the flask. Today, right now, tomorrow, a month from now. You decide, and I’ll do it.”

Dean opens his mouth. Sam puts a thumb over his lips. “And another thing, no more steamy showers in rooms with mirrors from this point on.”

Two blinks, then three, and Sam feels when Dean allows the sentiment to change. “Dick,” Dean says, sniffing just once.

“Your dick,” says Sam, taking a chance and moving one hand down to palm Dean through his boxers. Dean isn’t hard, but Sam can feel him start to twitch and fill almost immediately. He rubs more strongly and it’s not long before Dean is making these little grinds up into Sam’s hand.

“Sammy...worst...ah, sense of humor in the...whole fucking world.” Dean’s eyes fix on Sam and it’s Sam’s turn to get hard.

“Fuck, Dean.” Sam groans. When it happens, the kiss is warm and beery and everything Sam remembers. His breathing stutters when Dean reaches under his waistband.

“General idea, genius. Now get these off.”

But Sam knows there is no way he is going to last long enough for that. He’s missed Dean and sex with Dean and sleeping with Dean too much to have anything like an ounce of denial left in him.

“Dean, I wanna...” he breathes. They’re naked, skin on skin, and Dean is jacking him, both of them still on their sides facing each other. He keeps flicking out his tongue, finding Sam’s, and then dancing back when Sam arches forward. It’s all maddeningly slow and hypnotic, and Dean’s erection is a hot and wonderful thing against his hipbone, but Jesus...

“Lemme... I wanna suck you. Please.” 

Dean kisses him for real then, all teeth and tongue and suction, and Sam flips them, covering Dean with his body and shucking off the last of the blankets to the floor.

He kisses the skin under Dean’s jaw, sliding his dick wetly out of Dean’s grasp. 

“Sammy...”

“Shhh...”

Head thrown back, hands squeezed in the bedsheet, Dean looks every inch the coffee-table porn star in this light; sculpted abs, scars and tattoos present and correct, and stupidly intoxicating.

“What?” Dean has raised his head from the pillow, is squinting down and panting.

Sam realizes he’s paused too long on his way down Dean’s body. He smiles, then kisses and bites his navel. “Nothing. Just wool-gathering.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’ll gather you in a minute...”

Two hands find his head, push him down.

Dean’s cock bumps Sam’s chin and he has a moment to do nothing but lick the tip a few times and listen to Dean growl above him. One last swirl of his tongue and he takes pity, swallowing Dean down and sucking for all he’s worth. He’s never been able to deep throat, so the little bundle of nerves under the tip, the slit, the long hard vein running from base to tip – all get lavish attention from his mouth. Dean’s hands squeeze his head almost painfully when his fingers find Dean’s sac. Then they slip through all the precome and spit to Dean’s hole...

Sam guesses he’s not the only one starved for this, because one fingertip is all he manages to get in before Dean is arching over him, cursing and convulsing. He’s bitter and warm and everything Sam has missed and needed since the first time they reached for each other all those years ago. He swallows and swallows, coming almost untouched as he strokes Dean down from his high. He pulls off with one last kiss to Dean’s sticky, cooling cock and lays his cheek on Dean’s hipbone.

“Fucking missed doing that to you,” he says, breathing unsteadily, his voice raw.

There’s a hand in his hair again, petting, then tugging. “C’mere.” 

Sam lets Dean haul him up, lets Dean kiss him open and wide, all that sweet and bitter salt passing tongue to tongue. He remembers how Dean likes to taste himself.

Sam reaches down beside the bed, grabs Dean’s discarded tee, and mops up where he came all over Dean’s leg. 

“Messy fucker,” says Dean, but his tone is indulgent and his fingers are playing with Sam’s hair. He sounds nothing but smug.

Sam tosses the t-shirt and settles, shoulder to shoulder with Dean. The bed is a fairly wide queen and there’s enough room for them to lie on their backs next to each other. Sam stares at the ceiling and wonders how long he’s got with Dean like this. He closes his eyes, determined to deny his own nature and not send Dean scurrying back to his own bed by wanting to talk.

When Dean’s hand closes over the back of his on the mattress between them, Sam honestly holds his breath. 

“Think we’d still be his boys. If he saw us like this?” asks Dean.

Sam turns his head, a sudden horrible thought taking shape. “The flask is still in the trunk, right? You didn’t—

Dean lightly smacks the back his hand. “No, it’s still there. Give me some credit. Just...” He covers Sam’s hand again, thumbs over one of his knuckles. “What would he say, Sam?”

“Roll his eyes and call us idjits? I don’t know.”

“He wouldn’t approve.”

“No, he wouldn’t. But then he went to bed with a zombie, so...”

Dean squints at him, as if horror-struck. “That was his _wife_ , dude.”

“Not the second time around, she wasn’t.”

Dean turns fully onto his side and goes up onto his right elbow. His eyes search Sam’s face. “Your point?”

“God, I don’t know. That...that nothing in our lives is normal? So, maybe it’s okay to flip the world the bird once in a while, and grab what we need to get through the day?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just looks at Sam some more. Sam hears what he said and has no real idea how it sounded. He’s opening his mouth to defend what exhaustion and an orgasm will do to his upstairs brain, when Dean leans down and kisses him, hard and quick. Then Dean turns onto his side and appears to settle with his back to Sam. Sam chews his lip. He’s not sure if he should take that as a cue to move away, but then technically, he was in this bed first. He retrieves a sheet from the floor and throws it haphazardly over both of them. Then he inches forward, noses the back of Dean’s neck, and slings an anything-but-casual arm around his waist.

He breathes out when Dean simply reaches back and pulls Sam’s arm further around. “Flip the world the bird, huh?” is all he says.

Sam smiles into the back of Dean’s neck, squeezes his ribs. “Yeah. It’s a Hemingway thing.”

“Not a foxhole thing, then?” Now he knows he’s got Dean smiling. Finally. 

“Eh. That, too.”

Teapots, seagulls, foxholes, and Hemingway. 

Only in their lives would it make an insane kind of sense. 

*******


End file.
